Mirror, Mirror, in Us All
by clair-de-neptune
Summary: What someone sees in the Mirror is just a reflection of themselves. That's what most people think, at least. But no, when you look into the Mirror, you see something more. You see a much deeper reflection. The reflection of the darkest side of your heart.
1. Chapter 1

**Prologue**

_I'll take your throne_

_And when I sit in the vacant space_

_I will be filling the hole in which_

_You have stolen from me_

* * *

><p><em>I'll take your throne<em>

_And when I sit in the vacant space_

_I will be deepening the hole in which_

_You have left for me_

* * *

><p><em>I'll take your throne<em>

_And when I sit in the vacant space_

_I will be thinking of it,_

_Thinking of your beating heart_

* * *

><p><em>I'll take your throne<em>

_And when I sit in the vacant space_

_I will be thinking of it,_

_Thinking of your withered heart…_

* * *

><p><em>What brings us together is what pulls us apart<em>

_Please, dear,_

_Bring me your heart…_


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 1**

You are tired of this talk of love.

For hours the huntsman and William have argued wordlessly over whose kiss broke the spell. The space between them serves as a battleground as their spear-like glares slice the air, launching fatal blows towards them both. And you stand in the middle, narrowly dodging the javelins that they exchange, begging both of them to stop. This is not what it's supposed to be about.

More than anything, this is not how _you _want to feel. You aren't a maiden to be bickered over, and this is exactly how they are treating you, even through war preparations. There is a constant sense of one trying to outdo the other, whether it is in the training arena or the strategy room—and you are tired.

So, so tired.

It frightens you. You catch yourself beginning to base your thoughts on how valuable you are to Eric and William; sometimes these thoughts are small and fleeting, and you barely notice them—other times you halt everything else and snag them, glare at them disgustedly and in shock, and cast them away before you slowly turn into something much more senseless.

No, this is not what it's supposed to be about. This is never what it was _intended _to be about. Love was never supposed to enter this situation. It was irrelevant. Useless.

A bit like how you're beginning to feel, in fact.

Ever since you awoke, the Duke's men, servants, soldiers—they've been treating you like a fragile flower that will wither and die if the slightest scratch comes upon your head. Suddenly, they want to preserve you…as if it wasn't important before.

And even if Ravenna is slain, you know these problems will not disappear with her.

William and Eric will still continue to fight over who wins your hand, and when you will finally grow weary and acquiesce to the lesser of two evils, so to speak, you will become nothing more than a figurehead of kindness and benevolence in your kingdom. All of that independence—it will vanish.

After the battle, you will return to being treated daintily and with overprotective care, while your husband, whoever _that_ shall be, makes the true decisions for the land.

It is sickening as much as it is frightening.

Perhaps that's where the nauseating roll in your gut has stemmed from—the underlying knowledge that the control you once had over your life is slowly slipping into the hands of others, bit by bit, like sand in an hourglass.

It's only a matter of time before all the grains fall into the other side, and all you can do is helplessly watch.

* * *

><p>Rest is not granted to you at any hour of the day.<p>

During the daylight hours, you are constantly surrounded by the silent clamor of tension between Eric and William. It hangs in the air like the humidity of the summer and the bleak grey clouds of the winter, taking many different forms but always conveying the same thing.

When you are given the smallest sliver of privacy in your chambers, the thoughts of future conflict and the unplaced burden of a queen dangle precariously near your precious head that must remain unscathed. And when these thoughts finally overcome your internal arguments, you inhale a deep, empty breath and extinguish the solitary candle next to your bed.

The darkness does not give you the solace you so desperately wish it would.

You stare into it, closing and opening your eyes without seeing a difference, and it is the personification of how you feel.

Blind. Overwhelmed.

And it is in the darkness—the color of death—that fear seems to be brought to life; in the darkness, things no longer with a beating heart resurface around you.

_Lips red as blood_

_ Hair black as night_

It comes as a haunting whisper, a memory of your mother and Ravenna cruelly twisted into one. You wonder, then, how a person who is viewed as the quintessence of purity can be described with such dark, violent things, with black and bloodshed—the colors of corruption.

Yes, the colors of corruption sit upon your precious head and stain your lips, as if your thoughts are as dark as night, as if you have sipped upon goblets of blood all your life.

And yet, they call it beauty.

You resist the urge to thrash about wildly in your bed out of frustration, and instead settle for turning restlessly on one side.

_But I feel you and I are bound._

_ I feel it there,_

_ in your heart._

Pale hands fly up to clutch your chest as these silent words circle around you, threatening to steal your heart, and you barricade it with as much willpower as you can. This is the source of your greatest night terrors—Ravenna's voice, once so gentle and soft to you as a child, reminding you of what she wants, reminding you of the contract you never agreed to.

_I feel it there,_

_ in your heart_

This same gentle tone is how she speaks in all of your nightmares. It doesn't matter what she's doing, whether it's simply speaking to you or threatening to carve the thrumming organ out of your chest—she murmurs to you quietly, calmly, as if you were eight years old again.

The anger that you expect to boil in your veins at the mere thought of this does not come. The hate that you expect to throb brazenly against your neck never arrives. Instead, all that these thoughts bring is trembling, twisting sorrow. While everyone else rejoices in the notion of you valiantly slaying Ravenna, it makes you want to _writhe_.

You were never meant to kill anyone, were you?

Visualizing Ravenna's eyes dimming with death doesn't settle right in your heart. Perhaps it is because it is your heart she wants, and you must preserve it for her.

Your heartbeat pounds against your flesh with uncertainty, and an exhale hisses past your nostrils. For now, you must sleep.

Even though you know dreams will not bring your solace, either.

* * *

><p>It is cold.<p>

That's the first thing you pick up as your eyes flutter open. It is so cold that you can see your breath fog in front of you; it must be the middle of winter. December.

The scene itself is unfamiliar, but you know exactly where you are, and you know exactly who stands a few feet ahead of you.

Garbed in a heavy fur cloak, your mother faces away from you as she walks in the castle gardens, footsteps crunching in the snow. The soft, white powder coats the tops of bare branches, even up to the trees that tower high above your head. Their limbs that spindle outwards against the grey sky remind you of veins.

This is the tale she put you to sleep with every night: the story of how she longed for a child, lips red as blood and hair black as a raven's wings, all with the strength of a rose blooming defiantly in the suffocating, bitter winter. You are living it now, as you breathe in the icy air and shiver against the chill. A overwhelming longing to run into her warm embrace washes over you, but your legs refuse to maintain any speed other than an achingly slow walk.

Mother's kind voice, sweet as the summer wind, splices the air and drives the cold away. An unusually warm breeze tickles your skin.

_And there, dear child, I found among the freshly fallen snow a single red rose. The rest of the world seemed so devoid of life, but there it stood, soft and compassionate, bringing hope to all who saw it._

The crunching of footsteps slows and stops as you watch her halt in front of the sole symbol of life in the deepest of all winter.

_I reached for it,_

She bends down, then, an arm extended to wrap her fingers along the stem—

_but pricked my finger on its thorns, and there three drops of blood fell,_

—you watch them fall, and they stain the snow—

_and the red seemed so alive against the white that I wished for a child with the perseverance of that rose. When my child came, I named her Snow White…_

—she turns around, and your blood crystallizes into crimson ice against your veins—

_"So that all who stand against her will become alive."_

—and it is _her_, and _she _has been walking all along, or has your mind switched them? And then, as you try to backpedal away from an unnatural green stare, you realize the breeze feels more like the warmth of a freshly deceased corpse, and the soft, gentle voice has been mangled with your mother's, and it terrifies you how _you couldn't even tell the difference—_

Ravenna advances towards you calmly, like an un-heavenly angel; her long golden hair cascades down over her shoulders like it was before she married your father; she wears no adornments other than her emerald eyes, and they _bore _into you, searching desperately for your heart—

—and something else, but you can't tell what it is.

Her perfect pink lips move as you try to run, but there is an invisible tether that prevents you from going any farther, so you are forced to hear the haunting words, and they reverberate in the warm air reeking of death,

_"I feel that you and I are bound._

_ I feel it there,_

_ in your heart…"_

She stops walking, and the undetectable rope holding you two together tightens as you are jerked forward. You trip and stumble right into her arms, and she catches you, grabbing your chin as she forces you to look at her.

Ravenna's gaze pierces through you. Shuddering involuntarily, you find that you cannot wrench yourself free from her grasp, even though she is holding you rather loosely. You are captivated, so unwillingly captivated, and her perfect pink lips curl into a smile as cold as winter.

The whisper that ghosts the air is delicate and tinkles like silver bells.

_"…Don't you feel it too, my dear, dear, Snow White?"_


	3. Chapter 3

It is in the dark where fear becomes the most alive. You can feel it there, through the hair plastered to your cold, sweaty skin. You can feel it there, as your lungs struggle to gasp for their next breath. You can feel it there, even as silent beads of salt sting against the corners of your eyes.

You can feel it there, throbbing in the deepest part of your chest.

You can feel it there, in your heart.

* * *

><p>The first time you ever <em>truly <em>wanted to run away was as a child, after your mother died.

There was no particular situation in which you were ensnared that made you fearful—and if there was, you do not remember it. The only thing you can recall is that you were _frightened. _A shaky gasp forced itself against your lungs, and you tried to cry _Mother!, _but God, oh God that singular word stuck in the back of your throat when you realized she wouldn't come to save you. So instead, with wide, terrified eyes you choked on that word as dread constricted around your neck like a snake.

The first time you ever _truly_ wanted to run away was when Death drew back his cowl, and now that frighteningly familiar fear creeps around the foot of your bed. Yes, Death has revealed himself once more, but now he does not bestow you with the grief of losing another.

No, he is about to offer you the grief of losing your own life—or perhaps, if he is gracious enough—only your mind.

You have nowhere to go. On the one hand, if Ravenna dies, your life—the _control _of your own life—that is placed in the palms of another man. You will be married and die as the "of" portion of the world. "Daughter _of_." "Wife _of._" You do not want to be _of _someone. You want to _be _someone.

On the other hand, if, by some chance, Eric and William are taken by Death, you will be left with only Ravenna. Who will have your heart, and you will ultimately die. You are not sure which scenario is worse. Perhaps they are both equally torturous.

It is this feeling of being trapped like an animal of prey in a snare that makes you want to run, just as you did when you were a child. Distance makes everything seem so small. If Ravenna did not persist so often in your dreams, perhaps she would seem nonexistent as well.

If you could run.

* * *

><p>The pastel colors of dawn are seeping past the horizon like ink bleeding through paper when you awaken. You rub your face with your hands and watch the sun slowly begin her ascent into the sky. It has always been a morning ritual of yours, to see a new day rising; it brings you a sliver of still peace you do not often experience anymore.<p>

Especially after a night like this past one. You can feel the fatigue clawing at the lids of your eyes and pulling at the sides of your face. It is exhausting, but you have adjusted to being drained—more or less.

But for now, you are seeing the sun rise, the only thing that can make the weariness seem imaginary. You watch there, out of the small, narrow glass window of your chambers. The rays of sunlight slice through the trees like brilliant swords, but also bring a warmth much needed for the cold, wintery land, frozen to the core with ice. Powdery snow tumbles off of thin evergreen branches as morning birds hop from one place to another, calling to their counterparts with simple songs. A white hare's ears peek out from under a burrow.

Maybe you could run away, you think. Look at the world, running as normal and without a care. Those birds, those hares, those trees—they don't know about Ravenna. If you could run away, somewhere far, far away…maybe you could convince yourself that you don't know Ravenna, either.

A soft knock on your door startles you from your thoughts. It is only after you say "come in" that you realize you had instinctively clutched your chest to protect your heart.

A younger girl with a small tray opens the door and takes a meek step inside your room. "Your breakfast, Queen Snow—"

"Thank you, Sarah," you say and give her a kind look, "but please, call me Snow."

"Yes, of course Que…Snow." Her cheeks flush faintly. She walks over quietly, like a ghost, and places the tray on your bed. You smile graciously to her.

You want to wait until she leaves before you eat, but there is a hesitance about her—as if there is something she wishes to ask—a lingering feeling. Narrowing your green eyes in a reflective manner, you murmur, "Is there anything else, Sarah?"

"I—no," she stammers, and that is all. Her gaze falls to the floor.

"If there is something causing you ill, I would like to know, if you are willing to tell me," you encourage, and her pale, ice-blue eyes flick up to meet yours nervously.

She takes a short breath. "I…" she swallows, and averts her gaze again, "I was curious…is all…I mean, I—I do not think it is all appropriate if I were to ask you this question, but I…"

Your eyes soften in compassion as you patiently wait.

"I was wondering if you know…if you know whose kiss it was that awoke you."

It is then, at the verbalization of that very question that has been circulating in your mind day and night that your muscles tense and your blood freezes. You think that Sarah saw a flash of discomfort flicker across your eyes because all too quickly she is in the doorframe, leaving the room, murmuring shaking apologies, hand on the doorknob.

The door closes without a sound.

You take a deep breath, close your eyes, and feel the coldness of the air seep through the sides of your chest. If you really focus, if you really try with all your might, maybe the cold can make everything numb.

Is that how powerful leaders push through duties? By being numb? Perhaps if you were numb, you could not feel the disappointment of your comrades as you fled.

You open your eyes and scowl at the tray, now holding lukewarm food, that rests indifferently on your bed. What kind of person are you becoming? An emotionless coward whose only wish is to scamper away like a foolish child?

No, you manage to tell yourself, you are not that coward. A woman destined to be a Queen shall _not _be a coward.

But the little worm of doubt still squirms in your mind, because right now you are not feeling at all very much like a Queen. It has been hard for you to envision. All you can see is this conflict—Ravenna hunting you down for your heart, and the Duke preparing his men—just dragging on for eternity.

When will be the day that you must take on Ravenna face-to-face?

Not today, you decide. You swallow down your breakfast, now cold, don a warm cloak, and straighten your back before you leave.

* * *

><p>You ignore the worried glances of the servants as you make your way towards the training arena. Right now, you need a distraction, and practicing with your blade is all you want to do. Eric and William—even the Duke—protested when you first tried to wield a sword. <em>"We must keep you safe!" <em>they argued, _"You'll hurt yourself; you're only a woman!"_

They fell silent when you asked them, _"And when you fail to keep me safe? What then? Will I be helpless, captured defenseless by the enemy? What kind of commander orders but does not battle? What kind of Queen does not fight alongside her men?" _

You look back on that conversation and cringe, for now you are a Queen who wishes not to fight with her men, but to run away. Your hypocrisy makes your stomach twist. Perhaps Eric and William were right, after all.

You enter the training arena and wrap your fingers around your sword on the rack.

_What kind of commander orders but does not battle? _

You take the sword and are soothed by its familiar weight, by how the grip rubs against your palm. Gaining a battle stance, you head towards one of the dummies set up on one side of the empty arena.

_What kind of Queen does not fight alongside her men?_

The sword whistles a tune as it slices through the air, and you can feel the muscles in your sword arm twitch and tense as you turn on your heel, strike again, whirl around, strike down, side-step, strike—

_What kind of commander orders but does not battle?_

_ A cowardly one._

_ —_Your jaw tightens, your eyebrows pinch, and the whistling of the sword grows louder.

_What kind of Queen does not fight alongside her men?_

_ A cowardly one._

Raising your sword high in the air, you are about to bring down a final strike when the dummy suddenly isn't a dummy anymore—it's Ravenna, pale skin glowing in the sunlight and emerald eyes burning through you, scrutinizing, desperately searching, sifting through your chest, rattling your ribcage as it gropes around blindly for your heart.

Stumbling backwards in shock, your blade drops to the ground as you clutch your chest protectively. Ravenna does not move; the only thing separating her from a statue is the sharp flash of victory that races across her green irises.

"You lost focus, Snow."

You blink, and Ravenna is gone, but as you turn around, you are met with yet another person you wish to run from. Eric stands a few feet away, axe slung over his broad shoulder. "Is there anything wrong?" he asks gently.

With a sigh, you pick up your sword and shake your head. Eric's lips tighten in response—he knows, you think, he knows that something is most definitely wrong—but you are not willing to tell him, nor William, nor the Duke, nor the servants, nor anyone.

In fact, there really isn't anyone you can tell but yourself, and telling yourself what is wrong doesn't get you very far—because _you _already know, but you don't know what to do.

You imagined Ravenna, the source of your sleepless nights, the essence of your conflicts, the very woman who killed your father, and now wishes to kill _you_—and _you_—after all she has stolen—cannot kill her.

"Well, if you ever need someone…" the huntsman trails off as he rubs his palm against the handle of his axe. He was never quite good with being comforting.

"Thank you." It is terse and a bit too formal. You turn around and begin swinging distractedly at the dummy again, and the sound of footsteps dragging slightly in the grass makes you feel incredibly guilty.

Eric's grunts echo off of the walls surrounding the arena as he hacks away at the air, and you resume trying to train, shrugging off the discomfort. Each time you prepare for the final blow, however, the image of Ravenna searching, searching, searching, eyes drilling into your chest, seeking, seeking, seeking—flickers in front of your eyes, and you drop your sword, unable to go through.

_What kind of Queen does not slay her enemy?_

_ A cowardly one._


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 3**

After attempting to slice your thoughts apart with your sword for the rest of the morning, and after trying to kill imaginary Ravenna, but failing each time, you decide you need a break. The muscles in your legs, arms, and shoulders throb in protest of the grueling physical exertion you put them under, and your dark hair, shining with a thin layer of sweat, even in this cold, is plastered against your pale forehead. Eric glances at you a few times as you exit the arena, eyes soft and pleading. Your eyes meet only once with his.

You are not sure if he saw the apology you were trying to hide.

You are sorry for many things. You are sorry for hurting his feelings—you still want to be his friend, after all—you are sorry for the conflict that tears apart him and William.

Slowly, as this regret and guilt forms balls and chains around your ankles, you trudge through the narrow corridors towards the mess hall, only managing short greetings to people who walk by. Quiet murmurs follow after you pass them, and you know they are whispering about you, talking about the kisses, talking about your mood, talking about how to help you, how to make you feel better, how to keep you safe.

You ignore them all.

A large room opens up before you, filled with tables lined up side-by-side. Sitting at those tables are soldiers with parts of their armor on, lances and swords laying under the benches. Their tired, heavy shoulders pull down their backs as they hunch over their food, but as soon as one of them sees you, he whispers to his friend, who whispers to his friend—and they all straighten their posture. Most of them turn their heads to consider you thoughtfully.

Hundreds of gazes look upon you, some with gratitude, some with exhaustion—but thankfulness and hope all the same. It warms your heart, and you smile at their grime-covered faces. Their stubbly cheeks round out as they give faint smiles in reply, and if they do not smile, they do so with their eyes.

The guilt that wraps around your feet now latches on like a weight in your heart. How could you ever abandon these men, who have so much of themselves invested in you?

You could, if you were numb. But God has cursed you with a compassionate soul, and your throat tightens at the thought of these soldiers' faces falling with despair, without guidance, without someone to look to, at your disappearance.

You could never run away. Not for a second.

Spotting a table towards the corner of the hall, you get your food and sit at it, alone. Unfortunately, someone else spots you as well, and he thinks he is helping you by keeping you company.

William comes up to you and sits down on the bench directly opposite, his dark eyes both excited and calm—no different than he was as a child. You nod in recognition to him, but cast your gaze down at your meal. Hopefully, you think, he will get the message, that you wish not to be bothered.

William never was good at reading other people, anyhow. He ducks his head down to try to catch your eyes. "I heard training this morning didn't go very swell."

You can't help but snort at that. "Eric told you, did he?"

There is no need to look at William—you can feel his whole demeanor prickle at the mere mention of Eric—but he responds nonchalantly, almost too much so. "Ye. He said you kept dropping your sword, along those lines or another."

Suddenly—you don't know what comes over you then—you decide to launch the conversation straight into what's really going on. "So why were you talking to Eric?" Now you look up, just in time to see the shock hit William's face.

"Why wouldn't I be talking to Eric?" he questions, but you know he's avoiding the real situation. You stab at your food with your fork and sigh.

"You know why you wouldn't be talking to Eric. Unless," you gesture with your hand casually, "you had something to make clear to him."

William's voice drops low, almost to a whisper. "What are you getting at, Snow?" he hisses, and it startles you. William has been nothing but gentle to you, but then again, this is the kind of reaction you wanted, right?

"I'm tired, William," you exhale deeply. "I'm tired of being fought over. I'm tired of being in the middle of your battleground. I'm tired of seeing you two argue behind my back. Please," you murmur, "just let it go."

"Why don't you just tell us, then?" His dark eyebrows drop low over his eyes; he is frustrated. "Why don't you just tell us who woke you?" When he notices your equally frustrated expression, he thinks this is because of the inability to choose, and he places his hand on yours. "Then this will all be over," he adds encouragingly, "I promise."

"Your make promises without thinking them through," you snap, and draw your hand away. "You—_both _of you, don't listen. I've already told you! I don't _know._ Besides," your voice raises as you continue, "all of us know it won't be over. You'll both hate each other afterwards. I don't even have to truly know who woke me. I could just make it up, and pit you against each other for the rest of my bloody life, if I wanted to!"

"Snow," William pleads as he shoots sharp glances at others turning to see the commotion, "please, calm down—"

"_No,_" your voice shakes a bit, but it doesn't matter, because this is the first time you've ever spoken how you feel, and you aren't going to let it go to waste. "Must you claim me over one kiss? Must I choose, without even knowing how I felt, without even being able to _feel _during my curse?" You abruptly stand, and your fork clatters loudly against your plate. "You want to know who I choose?"

His silence indicates he would most certainly like to know, but his lips, acting rather cowardly, betray him. They do not move.

"I choose _neither _of you—"

"But Snow—"

"—and I don't give—" you place your palms on the table and lean in close, baring your teeth, "—a bloody _fuck_ who woke me." Loose strands of your black hair slip out from behind your ears and in front of your face, and somewhere in the back of your mind, you think you must look rather animal-like. Good. You have never really shown anger before, and the kind, gentle girl that they all thought they knew is showing another side of herself that was hidden for a very long time—and that was hidden to yourself for a very long time.

William doesn't respond for a moment, flabbergasted by the brutish, crude language coming from your innocent lips. He blinks, then decides to try to console you. "Snow, listen—"

"What more do you want?" you cut him off sharply. By this point, the guilt that weighed you down before is burning away to naught but ash. It fuels your rage. This isn't your fault, you think, this was _never _your fault.

He falls silent after that, his dark gaze dropping to the tabletop. Your eyes sweep the mess hall only to find hundreds of wide eyes looking back at you.

You ignore them all. You are not sorry.

* * *

><p>You almost forgot that rest is not granted to you at any hour of the day. Luckily, the dream that you have tonight reminds you of this.<p>

You are in a room, a large one—an indoor training room. It is nighttime, and it is cold—December, you think. The iciness of the room pierces at your skin effortlessly. Puffs of air condensate in front of you as you exhale. The small candles along the walls provide little light and little heat. You shiver.

There is an odd weight at your hip, and as you feel at it you realize it is a sword. Unsheathing it, the scraping sound of it amplifies in the room. It reflects the faint light of the candles, and glows a bit like silver, driving away the shadows around it.

An unusually warm breeze whips your hair on your right side, and you whirl around to face its source, but you cannot see that far away in the corner, cloaked by darkness. You squint as you defensively walk forward—slowly—warily.

Soft, feather-light footsteps pad against the cold stone floor, and you raise your sword higher. From the shadows emerges first a chuckle that sound like William's—no, Eric's—no, William's—

You can't tell. It sounds like either a combination of both or an alteration of each, and as the figure's silhouette becomes more prominent, your blood freezes again.

That is not William, and that is not Eric.

Ravenna's gaze reaches you first, ever-seeking, ever-searching, and then her form emerges completely from the darkness. The crown is absent from her head, and all she wears is a simple, black dress in which she can move with ease. It is a stark contradiction, you think, to wear a garb the color of Death but have hair the color of Light.

You want to charge her and flee from her, but your legs are not cooperating; they stay stone still, no matter how much you urge them to move. Ravenna approaches you slowly, and stops exactly one sword-length away. Lungs expanding shallowly, your breath quickens as you begin to panic.

She's after your heart. She's after your heart, even though you wield a sword, you cannot defend yourself; you _know _you cannot kill her. Perhaps Eric and William were right after all. Perhaps you are merely a woman. Perhaps you need to be saved.

_And when you fail to keep me safe? What then?_

You have your answer now. Eric with his axe and William with his bow are not here—it is only you, you and Ravenna, the day you must rise against each other, face-to-face.

It doesn't feel like you are rising against her, though. You feel like a small child whose hands have not grown into her weapon, and Ravenna is merely playing with you, a toy of entertainment before she takes your heart.

"Let's begin, shall we?" she says, like a training instructor. Her chin is high and her neck is exposed, and the dry amusement in her eyes makes you want to hiss. "Come, practice."

It is a sick, twisted thing she is doing—exposing her throat for you to merely _practice _on—because she knows, she _knows _you will not hit the mark, no matter how many times you try, no matter how much willpower you drive your sword with. Your tongue twitches against the roof of your mouth, eager to twist with your frustration, to craft your anger and hatred, to form words to make her tremble, to convince her that thieving you of your heart would surely kill her as much as it would kill you, but all your uncooperative body does is twitch your lower lip. The urge to scream at Ravenna becomes overwhelming, and, unable to do so, your fingers tighten around the grip of your blade.

Ravenna only tilts her golden-haired head, curious as to why you are not killing her already.

"Come," she whispers, _beckoning_, as if she is _tempting _you, "practice."

With a cry, you lift your sword and attempt a slice against her shoulder—but she only steps out of the way. "Again," she commands, emerald eyes hard and gleaming, and you do—again. And again. And again. And again.

Each time she steps out of the way, you grow angry—angry she is evading you so easily, angry at yourself for not being able to destroy your enemy, angry that she is only _playing _with you. The annoyance starts small, but quickly builds into rage, and like an avalanche it does not stop once it has started. You take a deep breath. Your throat is terribly dry. Your eyes are watering from the freezing air. The armor on your body feels too heavy; the sword in your hand is like a block of lead. Gathering all of your strength, you raise your sword and lurch forward, aiming for her heart.

Ravenna steps backwards and grabs onto the sharpened blade with both hands, catching it, but ultimately cutting her hands down to the bone. Your eyes go wide and you stagger forward, deeply disturbed at the mere thought of the amount of blood that _should _be pouring from slice wounds on her palms and fingers—but no blood comes. Taking advantage of the momentum, Ravenna effortlessly flings you down to the ground. The sword clatters uselessly to the floor, out of reach.

Your head slams against the stone, and the corners of your vision blacken. You can still see Ravenna, however, and she approaches you calmly, with a deliberate slowness. Instinctively, you try to crawl away and clutch your heart, but suddenly she is atop of you, trapping you between her legs. You writhe from under her weight. You are trapped. You are an animal in a snare.

You close your eyes. You are going to die.

When the pain of your heart being carved from your chest does not come, you open your eyes in confusion. Ravenna looks down at you, eyes the color of envy tinged with disappointment and indifference. Blinking once, you croak, "Why aren't you killing me?"

"I might ask the same of you," she replies, and then huffs. An eyebrow arches. "But now I know why you haven't done that yet."

"Stop!" you cry, "I am not a coward—"

"Surely, you are." She reaches to her hip and produces a small dagger. Her slender fingers pry open your hand, which is balled into a fist, and forces the grip into your palm. She closes your fingers over the handle and turns back to you, eyes flickering like the weak candles that line the room. "Again," she whispers.

You are as furious as you are outright horrified. She is both taunting you and begging you to murder her, only you are not sure which is her true intention. Staring at the dagger and her fingers wrapped around yours, you consider this—until you realize she is guiding the knife in your hand to her heart.

"No," you gasp, "no, wait—"

She pauses, and her fingers twitch around your wrist (her grip is abnormally warm—lukewarm, almost—not quite alive, and not quite dead). "What kind of Queen does not slay her enemy?" she asks, leaning in close. Her breath seeps through your skin.

"A cowardly one," you answer, and screw your eyes shut. You can feel her guide your hand the rest of the way, but when you finally gather the courage to open your eyes, the dagger is hilt-deep in her chest, and no blood flows from the wound. Her emerald eyes, which once flickered weakly like candle flames, are now empty and cold. Lifeless.

It is only after you awaken, struggling for air, writhing in the sheets, do you realize that both you and Ravenna are queens. Ravenna, hollow, emotionless Ravenna, did not slay her enemy.

The pillow on your bed becomes damp with your tears.


	5. Chapter 5

**Reader discretion is advised: depictions of violence (though not terribly detailed). **

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 4<strong>

After hours of your body trembling, you manage to take deep breaths, to try to calm yourself down. It is in the dark where the fear becomes the most alive, it is in slumber in which it hunts you, and it is when you lay awake that it strikes, piercing your veins like sharpened lances, tipped with poison that decays you from the inside out.

And it is through your blood that this toxin flows, and it is your heart that circulates it through your quaking form.

* * *

><p>Usually, the bustle of servants and the light of dawn awaken you in the morning. Today, the shouts of men charge through the stone corridors like howling wind, and at first, you think you are having another nightmare.<p>

Rest is not granted to you at any hour of the day, not even in the peaceful daybreak that you thought you once had. No longer. Eric bursts into your room as you are scrambling to put on your armor, ignoring the cold that pierces through the soles of your feet—though you cannot ignore Ravenna's eyes—dark, fiery green irises—watching you from somewhere, anywhere, _everywhere._

Her soft voice, deadly and gentle, echoes around you, _calling_ for you, for your attention. _Snow._

_ Snow._

_ Snow._

"Snow."

The hairs on your neck bristle at the sound of your name, and, whipping around, hair catching at the sides of your cheeks, you point your sword at the source—who lifts his hands and backs up a step. You blink. It is only Eric. You give him an apologetic look, but his face is exhausted. "Wild beasts we've never seen before," he explains briefly. "They're massive." He turns on his heel and beckons you to follow behind. You mind the large blade of his axe that hangs over his shoulder.

"From the Dark Forest?" you ask. Would creatures from the Dark Forest really venture out to hunt them so? Had Ravenna finally found a way to harness them with her magic? You shudder. The _things_—so monstrous they were hardly considered _monsters_—are something you do not wish to confront twice.

_But I am no coward, _you think as you grit your teeth. The mental image of Ravenna's eyes, however—empty and lifeless, and her body slumped over the dagger in her chest—makes you feel the contrary.

"Could be," Eric replies. There is a stiff bluntness in his tone, and it weighs your heart down with guilt again. "From what I've heard—" he takes a sharp turn down a corridor, and you follow, "—they seem worse."

_Worse? _

You give no response. Eric hefts his axe from his shoulder and grips it with both hands as you near the exit. Cries of men and howls of beasts raise a near deafening clamor in the air, but it doesn't affect you, mostly because your ears are already ringing, and all you can hear is the familiar thumping in your chest that you've grown to love and fear.

_Whum-_

_-thump_

_ Whum-_

_-thump._

It is the sound that reminds you that you are still alive, and it is the sound that reminds you that Ravenna is still hunting for you. Each beat demands your attention and refuses to be ignored; they say:

_You're-_

_ -alive_

_ You're-_

_ -alive!_

And you aren't sure if that is something you wish. Perhaps if you were dead, this fear would finally subside.

_You-_

_ -coward_

_ You-_

_ -coward!_

* * *

><p>All too quickly, your cries, thirsting for victory, for relief, join the overwhelming clamor of men's shouts and beasts' howls. Eric was right; these creatures are worse than the ones you encountered in the Dark Forest—hundreds of times worse. Their pelts are the color of the blackest of blacks—of a void—as if their silhouettes are massive shadows that destroy everything they touch. Multiple eyes scour the battlefield for fresh meat to turn to corpses—from both sides. Rage, burning in the irises of men, translates to the movement of their weapons as they draw a sickening, ink-like liquid into the cold, dry air. The whites of the beasts' eyes are startlingly contrasting against their pelts, and their fangs, adorning the same gleaming color, are stained red as they sink into human flesh.<p>

There are monsters of the likes no one has ever seen before.

There are the creatures with multiple appendages of everything—multiple legs, multiple tails, multiple heads. They are few in number but large in size, towering over even the tallest of men like mountains of sin. Their tails mimic the wild lashing of their heads that snap fiercely at any who dare approach, and those that do approach quickly retreat when under the rabid gaze of multiple pairs of eyes. It is with this tyrannical presence that they use their large paws to swipe at rows of soldiers, easily wiping out tens and tens at a time.

There are the creatures that take to the air with such a hideous grace, one couldn't help but be entranced, if only for a short moment (it is in that short moment, however, that these creatures had enough time to strike a deadly blow). Long legs accompanied by talons for feet pluck up helpless soldiers on the ground and fling them far; their screeches sound like mocking laughter as their gazes dart about frantically, searching for more to throw. Their necks are long—conveniently long enough for a blade to slice cleanly across—but when one sees their faces, they freeze in fear, for they are wrinkled, pinched into a permanent scream, jaws unhinged wide, ready to swallow.

And finally, there are the foul, demon-like creatures that hang suspended as if their leathery wings are pinned to the air, and their long, triangular faces are embellished by permanent, upturned smiles. Long, ovular, empty eye sockets are blacker than the rest of their bodies, and their arms dangle limply from their torsos. They lurch forward and swing haphazardly with their long, curling claws—marionettes on strings being tugged by some unknown puppeteer.

This is not worse than the Dark Forest. This is a manifestation of Fear himself. This is a nightmare, for sure. It _must _be. You are trapped in this nightmare as Fear cackles in the background, as he watches you slice uselessly at creature after creature. After many slashes, they exit from the world with a blood-hurtling scream and collapse to the ground; a black, tar-like substance sticks in their fur and on your skin. It is this substance that sinks into the Earth, absorbed like a sponge—and it makes you think how easily the World accepts such evils.

Perhaps the World doesn't accept it. Perhaps the World is forced to oblige.

It makes you pause for a moment, through all the unraveling chaos around you. You stare at the pools of black blood on the ground, and it reminds you of Ravenna's evil that has embedded itself into the land. The Earth draws in this blood like water, as if it is a dire necessity for living things, and the pools of black gradually disappear into the soil.

To sprout things rooted in evil.

Perhaps the World is _greedy_ for it. Perhaps the World _thrives _on it.

_Snow…_

Your name is whispered through the blurring shadows and the crimson-streaked figures, weaving slowly, delicately, patiently.

_Snow…_

Her soft voice, deadly and gentle, deadly and gentle, deadly and gentle, ever so tenderly loosening the grip you have on your sword, ever so sweetly coaxing your eyelids to close, ever so sweetly, ever so sweetly, ever so sweetly…

_Snow…_

From somewhere far away, perhaps in another world, another dream, another nightmare, a foul, demon-thing's lips twist sickeningly so into a perverse smile. The fleshy human in front of it is helplessly entranced by blood the same color as her beautiful, beautiful hair. The crimson won't even show. How convenient.

_Snow…_

"Ravenna…" It tumbles out of your mouth on a light breath, disconnected from any sane thought. You're calling back to her. Why are you calling back to her? She's looking for you.

_She's looking for you._

"Ravenna." You blink, and time slows just a bit. Your heart thumps in your ears, and a sense of danger prickles up your back and to your neck, but it doesn't register. The invisible strings attached to the arms of the demon-creature begin to jerk wildly in excitement. It can hear the heartbeat of its prey. So loud, so strong, so consistent.

_Whum-_

_ -thump._

_ Whum-_

_ -thump._

_I feel that you and I are bound…_

Yes. You feel it, now. As you unknowingly approach death, the fated bond between you and the witch amplifies in your mind. Your eyes look around the battlefield, and the beasts are gone. Eric and William are nowhere to be seen. The soldiers, the soldiers whose eyes looked upon you with such hope—tired hope, but hope all the same—have vanished without a trace. She stands there, in a heavy winter cloak, emerald eyes burning fiercely, searching. A little invisible rope tugs at the thrumming organ in your chest, pulling you to her—

The world speeds up with an overwhelming rush, and a warm, sticky fluid splatters on your skin. It is the ear-splitting scream that brings you back to reality, but whether it was you or not, you cannot tell. All too quickly you are collapsing in the snow, and the cold welcomes you like it always did in your dreams.

Of course. It is always winter in your dreams. Even in the worst of your nightmares. If you die here, you will still wake up to the sun rising in the east. Its rays will slice through the trees, and you will be happy, if only for a few minutes.

When a writhing, leathery thing falls on top of you, however, you reconsider. Maybe this is a nightmare you are already living.

"_Snow!_"

Sharp talons rake through your arms as you are flung to the side, and you fly in the air like a ragdoll, limbs flailing haphazardly. You feel no pain when you land. Perhaps it is because you are already dead.

_Whum-_

_ -th-thump._

Your reminder throbs in your ears.

The demon-thing staggers over to you, through the shouts of men and sounds of battle. Three arrows are stuck grotesquely in its neck, jutting from odd angles—but it refuses to die. Another arrow _zips _through the air and burrows itself deep behind its ear. The beast's tongue, a worm-like appendage, lashes out of its open mouth and flings saliva across your armor as it roars in agony; you think you hear your name from somewhere…a far-off dream, perhaps? Another nightmare?

_"Run, Snow! Get up! Run!"_

Now, who's telling you that? Maybe it's your flight response. Maybe its Eric. Maybe it's William. Who knows? Certainly not you. All you can think of is this thing's curling, crooked teeth in your face as more arrows _thwok _into its flesh.

_"Snow! Run!"_

Your head snaps to the right, and you nearly vomit at the sight of the carcasses of humans outnumbering the carcasses of creatures. It finally hits you. Demon-beast. William is wasting his arrows on you. Eric is nowhere to be seen. You are about to die.

Pure adrenaline overwhelms your bloodstream as your heart, your most precious organ, thumps rapidly against your ribcage. Grasping frantically at the ground, you scramble upwards onto your feet and bolt—away from the keep, away from the monsters, away from true love's kiss, away from rivalries, away from Eric, away from William, away, away, away. The searing pain in your arms and legs barely slows you down. You run flat out in the opposite direction. You don't care. You don't think your mind has the ability to even _think _coherently right now. All you know is that you are not dying—not today.

When the forest becomes unfamiliar and the wounds pouring blood become too much to bear, you stumble before finally, your knees buckle and the snow envelops you once more. Black creeps into the corners of your vision.

Your last thought before going unconscious is not pleasant.

_What kind of Queen does not fight alongside her men?_


End file.
